


Cannot Tire

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're nothing but a tyrant," America hissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cannot Tire

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 31, 2009. 
> 
> This fic deals with sensitive subjects, and is not meant to offend or insult anyone who may read it. The opinions in this piece are those of the characters and not necessarily reflect those of the author.

“America,” England greeted as he opened the door, not bothering to knock. America looked up over his shoulder before stepping down off the footstool he’d used to reach the top part of his windowsill, where he was making some repairs.   
  
“Hey, England,” he said, setting the hammer he was using back down on the bottom sill, rubbing his palms against his pants—stained, unraveling at the hems, and thin.   
  
When he looked up at the empire, England was making a thinly veiled look of disgust at the general direction of his attire. Pausing half a moment, America made a great show of rolling up the sleeves of his stained, dirty shirt. England’s eyebrows lowered as he regarded his colony.   
  
“What is it that you need?” America asked, hands in his pockets.   
  
England was watching his hands before looking back up at him again, lips still thin and expression closely guarded—though even after all these years America knew that he was frustrated.   
  
“What I need,” England said tensely before strolling away from him and towards America’s kitchen. America followed after him and watched as England searched America’s cupboards for tea—though he wouldn’t find any. America rested against the doorframe, arms crossed and watching England’s back. England closed the last of the cupboards with a snap and turned back towards America, eyes narrowed. “What I need is for you to stop acting like a spoiled child.”   
  
“Me?” America asked, only just restraining his anger at the remark.   
  
“Are you satisfied with acting like you’re still barely three feet tall?” England asked again, glancing at him sideways.   
  
“I have no idea what you’re getting at,” America muttered.   
  
“I’m so sure,” England said, voice crisp in the cool air in the kitchen. He steadied America with a look before walking towards him. America stiffened up as he approached, but did not back down. England must have noticed the tensing of the shoulders, because he almost paused, his eyes flickering over America’s face.   
  
But his expression hardened once again and he stopped in front of his charge, hands at his hips, looking up at the colony who, until recently, had been smaller than him. They remained in a dead heat for a long moment, their eyes locked and expressions guarded.   
  
“What?” America muttered, for the barest moment slanting his eyes away before returning his attention back to England’s green eyes, remaining firm now and unwavering.   
  
England’s eyes flickered and he said, rather tensely, “You and your people are skimping out on taxes and it’s becoming more and more a pain.”   
  
“And I’ve told you,” America said slowly, trying to weigh his words in a way that would prevent England from throwing them back at him, and try to rework him into a loyalist. He breathed in slow, his heart beating steadily in his chest. “I don’t want my people be taxed without representation in your courts.”   
  
“ _Your_ people?” England stressed, feeling tired. They’d had this conversation for many years now, and they still never reached anything new—and England hated to fight with the boy but the stupid lad was so stubborn that it was impossible to avoid. “Your people, as you call them, are _my_ people. You are all under my protection—”  
  
“And control,” America whispered, the anger in his voice unrestrained. “I just don’t really see why we need to keep the patrols in the colonies during peacetime, is all, and that’s why you would tax us before. For protecting us from France. But he’s been gone for over ten years, England.”   
  
“The royal navy protects your shorelines and the patrols protect the borders from threats,” England shot back, their dialogue nothing more than a practiced diatribe now, but one that never failed to anger the both of them until they couldn’t even look at each other for a few days.   
  
“My people can take care of themselves,” America returned, face tensed.   
  
“That gives you no right to shirk on your responsibilities to your mother country,” England said, back stiffening as he moved around the kitchen once again, face tensed as he tried, again, to search for tea.   
  
“You won’t find any,” America said.   
  
“No, I suppose I won’t,” England hissed to himself, throwing one of the cupboards shut and turning around to face his colony, leaning against the rickety old kitchen in the center of the room, watching the boy in the doorway. “You have obligations, America. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean you can just stop.”   
  
“You can’t tell me what to do,” his colony muttered.  
  
England raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised by the break in their practiced back and forth over these things that England had no plans on changing and America had no plans on letting go. The eyebrows lowered soon enough, and he simply gave his colony a rather incredulous look, his fingertips drumming on the table, a long, steady rap that, once started, almost made the two of them jump—other than their voices, it was eerily silent in America’s house, and their attentions were focused solely on one another.   
  
“Do you believe that, boy?” England asked, and only fueled America’s annoyance when the nation sounded amused.   
  
“I never thought you’d act this way,” America muttered, and then looked away. “I thought you would understand.”   
  
“What is there to understand? That I’ve long since spoiled you into thinking I could let you do what you want without any responsibilities or consequences?”   
  
“You weren’t supposed to force us to pay when we stopped paying,” America snapped. “You were just supposed to accept it and let us fend for ourselves.”   
  
“America, you are young. You do not understand the great responsibility I bear as your empire,” England said, taking the soothing approach now and advancing towards America. His footsteps echoed in the kitchen as he moved up in front of America. His hands dusted off the boy’s shoulders, straightened his collar, and unrolled his sleeves. America, instead of shrugging him away, merely let him do this, his eyes widened slightly in surprise and unable to move away. England continued, forcing his voice into a smoother voice, honeyed and almost a coo, like when he’d sing lullabies to the tiny colony years ago, “If I were to give you leeway on this, what else would you want leeway on? And what of your brothers and sisters, hm? Wouldn’t they want special treatment as well? And before you know it, I’d have a whole mess on my hands trying to keep you all in line while protecting you and doing what’s right for you.”   
  
America finally stiffened up under England’s hands, just as England’s hands dropped away back to his side. He looked up at his colony, smiling, but America could not smile back. He knew there was meant to be kindness in those eyes, but all he could see was a condescending, overpoweringly protective avoidance. Never before had England been so far away from America, not even when he was across the ocean.   
  
“It simply cannot do,” England continued. “You’re foolish if you believe that I would let you tromp about doing whatever you pleased.”   
  
“Stop it,” America whispered.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Stop acting like I’m a fool, like I’m still a little child,” America hissed.   
  
“You are a child,” England returned.   
  
“I’m _not_ ,” America snapped. “I’ve grown! I’m strong!”   
  
“You’re still young,” England reminded him, still smiling, though the hard glint in his eyes had returned, cold enough to set anyone’s blood to freeze. But America would never allow himself to be stopped cold merely by a look, even if it’d been enough to make him cry as a child.   
  
“And that’s your reason for restricting my people’s freedom—”  
  
“My people,” England reminded.   
  
America bit the inside of his cheek before continuing, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “Why you’re restricting _my_ people’s freedom and taxing us more and more? This is how you deal with a child?”   
  
“A child who thinks he’s bigger than he actually is, yes,” England agreed.   
  
America found his hands shaking, so he clenched them into fists for a moment. He bit his lip, and then uncurled his fists, making a big show of rolling his sleeves up again to his elbows, exposing his chorded arms one inch at a time.   
  
“You’re strangling me, England,” America insisted. “You’re preventing me and my people from growing more, you’re limiting and constraining and it isn’t good!”   
  
“And I suppose that’s why you’ve taken to creating your own governing bodies, hm? What were they called again? Your Provincial Congress, was it?”   
  
America paled for a moment before he steadied himself, leaning heavily against the doorframe to hide the fact that he was shaking. “You know about those.”   
  
“Yes, it seems I do,” England agreed, slanting his colony with a piercing look that, this time, did root the colony to his spot. “It seems they’re keen on replacing my legitimate rule and disregard Parliament.”   
  
“Because you’re—”  
  
“Yes, yes, I know about your petty insistences, you needn’t remind me—”  
  
“—Petty!—”  
  
“—And you’ll do well to hold your tongue when I’m talking to you.” They stared at one another, their eyes never wavering and their faces thin with their anger. “But no, all this isn’t the reason why I’m here now, boy.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I’m here about Boston,” England said and then pressed a hand against his colony’s chest, pushing him back against the doorframe and leaning forward into the boy’s face, their eyes still locked and their breaths mingling a moment. “About your ridiculous little protests.”   
  
So close to his face, America had the gall to smirk at England—a look that the empire would never be used to, not after years of the sweetest of smiles, the most genuine of earnest looks. A smirk, a taunting look, these were things he was not accustomed to seeing and somehow didn’t fit with his boyish face.   
  
“Didn’t like that, huh?”   
  
“No. That’s why it won’t happen again.”   
  
“So what, you’re—”  
  
“I’ll be sending in combat troops,” England cut him off.   
  
America’s eyes widened in shock a moment before he could not control his body’s shaking. He did not quiver from fear, but from the rage boiling in his veins. This time, when he looked at England, his face was openly angry, his eyes glaring straight through the empire and to his core. His blue eyes, stormy and thundering, locked onto the green eyes and did not, refused to, look away. He sneered, baring his teeth like some kind of cornered animal.  
  
“You can’t just do that! I have a militia, I have—”  
  
“You’ll find, America, that I can do what I want when I want. It seems you’ve forgotten who you belong to.”   
  
America shoved the hand on his chest away, throwing a bit more strength than he’d intended into the shove, as England’s shoulder wrenched back at a dramatic angle before he righted himself as if nothing had happened.   
  
“I won’t let you, England. You can’t do any of this, you can’t control me.”   
  
“You seem to be under the incorrect notion that you and I are equals, America,” England said quietly, voice low and eyes blazing. America felt the breath in his lungs catch, unable to move, remaining stagnant. England watched him, never taking his eyes away. “You and I are not here to discuss things such as policy and taxation. You are here to be my colony, to be under my protection. I know what’s best for you.”   
  
Slowly, the look of shock on America’s face sank away, replaced once again with his rage. He shook, hands clenched at his sides, gripping the doorframe for support, to keep him from launching at England—restraining back the shock at the realization that he wanted to hurt England. Even after all this time, after all the frustration, hurting had never been something that had crossed his mind for long.   
  
“So do not act as if you and I can have discussions like these,” England continued. “I’ve been far too lenient on you in the past, it would seem, and I won’t make that mistake in the future. You cannot tell me what to do or what my people—the ones in England the ones here—are to do. You are first and foremost my colony, my people. You are Englishmen and have your responsibilities to the country as such. To me.”   
  
“You…”  
  
“You are mine,” England asserted, chin raising a bit so that he was almost looking down at America, despite the height difference. The hand on his chest was back, shoving him against the doorframe. “You belong to me.”   
  
“I do not,” America insisted.   
  
“Stubborn America,” England said, straightening up. The hand at his side clenched. “Must I knock sense into you? I do not wish to strike you, boy, but understand that if I must, I will.”  
  
America bit his lip, glaring, eyebrows slanted and his eyes narrowed, his body tensed.   
  
“You’d hit people under your own protection?” America hissed.   
  
“Your insolence is grating, America,” England said with the smallest of condescending sighs that set America’s blood boiling. “I know what is best for you. Your stubbornness is admirable in some cases, but in this case is merely foolish. I am your empire, so trust me when I say that I know what’s best for you. Trust me.”   
  
America stared, and muttered something, his face wrenched in pain and anger.   
  
“What was that?”   
  
“… I used to trust you,” America whispered again, storming blue eyes staring straight at him.   
  
England’s face tensed up almost at once. He swallowed, thickly, and for a moment it almost looked as if he had trouble breathing. The hand on America’s chest shook, for half a moment.   
  
“I won’t let you have what you want this time, America,” England vowed.   
  
“I don’t want anything from you,” America snapped. “Not anymore, not ever. Let _go_ of me.”  
  
“I will not.”  
  
“Let _go_ ,” America shouted, now, his voice shattering the silence of the house. Suddenly, everything came with perfect clarity. The sound of rain beating against the glass of the windows, the shuffle of ash in the dead fireplace, their panted, unrelenting breathing. “Let go of me, England.”   
  
“I will not.”   
  
“Let go!” America shouted again, and shoved against England’s shoulders.   
  
The reaction was immediate, and not exactly what America had planned to do. The shove against England sent the man careening across the room until his back smashed into the armoire at the end of the kitchen. Its glass doors shattered against the force of which America had shoved, forgetting the strength he harbored and catching the empire off-guard. The glass, and the dishware within the armoire rained down on England, whose head was bowed, slumped and doubled over.   
  
“Eng—” America choked back the call, reminded himself of the anger in his chest, the roar of the blood in his ears. He did not run to the nation, just remained where he stood. He straightened, letting go of the doorframe and standing on his own, back straight and stiff, arms straight at his side, hands rolled into fists.   
  
The blast of glass and plates breaking rang in their ears, and the carnage of the kitchen rested in heaps on the floor around England’s feet. America noted England was cut, as a small drop of blood rolled down the cut in his cheek and dripped off the end of his chin. And when it seemed, after a few stilled moments of silence, that England was not going to get up, the man’s face shifted to the side, eyes clenched shut and a small groan easing past his parted lips. America’s heart leapt into his throat, not from fear or not, he so hoped, from sympathy.   
  
England cursed softly, to himself, before gripping the door of the armoire that had swung open, grasping it and hoisting himself up. His head was throbbing, the pressure behind his eyes great and painful. But he ignored it. The cuts the glass left and the throbbing pain in the back of his head where skull connected with wood was warmed by adrenaline and heat and pain. He focused on it, focused on it because otherwise he would have to focus on the fact that it was America who sent him spiraling like that.   
  
“See?” America said, once he saw that England was standing now—and missed the way that England almost wobbled, the way he struggled to regain his feet after the sudden tumble. “I’m stronger now.”  
  
“You caught me off guard,” England said softly. “A mistake I won’t make again.” He slanted a heavy, hardened look at his young charge. “You always did have the habit of forgetting your own strength.”   
  
“What makes you think I hadn’t meant to do that?” America barked.   
  
England dusted off his shoulders, patting down his chest to make sure nothing else had been injured by the falling debris. Then he began to walk, his boots crunching as it connected with broken plates and broken glass. The murk of anger blurred his green eyes, to the point where they almost bled black.   
  
And America didn’t have time to prepare before England grabbed the boy’s collar.   
  
“I’m stronger than you,” America warned.   
  
And then it was England’s turn to smirk. And like with America for England, America had never grown accustomed to seeing such a look, something he reserved for disobeying enemies, like France. Sometimes, when he was younger, America saw such a look in England’s eyes after he came back from pirating (something America was not meant to know about). But now, England glared and smirked and grasped America so tightly that he couldn’t remember to pull away.   
  
“Are you?” England asked. “One of my colonies, stronger than the British Empire? Tell me, boy, how can that be so?”   
  
“Your cheek is cut,” America reminded.   
  
“I have never before had as reason to demonstrate my strength to someone who is loyal to me,” England reminded, the saccharine sweetness sounding far too hollow in the ringing absence of shattered glass and splintered wood. The blood on England’s cheek driveled absently. “Why would I ever have to do that?”   
  
England didn’t give America the chance to answer him, because in that moment his foot slid to the side, between America’s feet, and with a pivot, England hauled America, quite easily and quite to America’s gasped surprise, over his shoulder and to the floor, on his back. The air rushed out of his chest, his eyes widened. England doubled over, to reach down and grab him again but this time America was ready.   
  
He shot his fist out, clipping England in the shoulder again and sending him sprawling off to the side. They both climbed to their feet, England rubbing at his cheek with a smirk that didn’t suit his face or the look in his eyes. America clenched his fists again and dove forward, fist out for a jab.   
  
England blocked it with his elbow, palm up before swerving and sending the elbow towards his face, cutting into the line of his jaw and jerking his head back. America gasped in pain as England grabbed his wrist, twisted it around his back and shoving him up against the wall. He squirmed, attempted to get free.   
  
“Damn—” he hissed, eyes clenched shut and body rigid under England’s hold. America bit his lip, choked back a cry of pain. He would not give England the satisfaction.   
  
“I will not stand for such rebellious nature, America,” England said in what could have been a gentle voice, but was too strained, too tight to be anything but pained and angry.   
  
He was about to say more, but America managed to wrest his wrist free, and jammed his elbow into England, shoving him back and kicking him away for good measure, whirling around. His jaw clenched, from pain and from anger, his teeth barred, he grasped England’s shoulders and shoved him again, sending him back against the window this time. England did not smash the window, but his forehead slammed painfully into the glass with a resolute crack. America watched England rest his cheek against the glass a moment, the dim late afternoon sun drifting through the rain-stained window so the shadows casting on England’s cheek almost looked like tears.   
  
But neither of them was crying, and America refused to believe that such sympathy could be inside England, not now.   
  
“You’re nothing but a tyrant,” America hissed.   
  
And he charged forward, fist out ready to punch into England. He almost looked at peace there, face smooth as he rested against the window. But as America pounded closer, his footsteps loud and heavy, he snapped his eyes open, instantly on guard. He blocked America’s haphazard bunch and sent another fist into America’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from him until he stumbled back.   
  
England advanced on him, sending quick jabs into the colony’s chest and then sending a swift kick to his chest. America tumbled backward, crashing into a rickety chair around the table so that it cracked under his weight and he collapsed to the ground with a sharp cry.   
  
England kneeled beside him, pinned him down with his knee. England’s hands curled into America’s golden hair, jerking his head up. America’s eyes blinked open and he glared at England but now there was fear in his eyes, something that stilled England almost instantly. Stormy blue glared back at him, but there was the smallest flicker of fear there, and the smallest flicker was enough to still England almost instantly.   
  
“You are my colony,” England said, to remind himself of why this was happening and why he would continue to do it as much as possible.   
  
America didn’t answer, just let out a small groan of pain, and clenched his eyes shut.   
  
England’s grip in the golden hair tightened. He studied the colony’s face, boyish but stronger than before. A bruise was already blossoming across his jaw, purple and blue and pained. The skin was tanned, worn, from working in the sun, working outside.   
  
England felt more than saw America’s hands close around England’s neck. He could have snap England’s neck easily, but he didn’t. They stare at each other—or more, they were glaring and refusing to relent.   
  
America looked as if he wanted to say something, but England didn’t let him finish, jamming his knee painfully into his lower diaphragm, once again knocking the wind from his lungs. America wheezed, seized up and hands loosening enough for England to rip the hands away, fingers closing around the wrist and pinning them above America’s head.   
  
When America opened his eyes again, England was there, invading his personal space. They glared, blue on green. He could feel the empire’s breath on his face, breezing past him. His own chest heaved, ragged and rigid and fearful. He refused to relent. He struggled against the hold on his wrists, but England hadn’t lied. For now, he was stronger. It was something he’d never realized about his caretaker, but should have. He would not forget.   
  
England smirked at him. “Now then. I’m feeling tolerant so perhaps we can let this all slide away into the past if you promise never to do this again.”   
  
America glared at him, jerking his head away violently, trying to get away from his presence, tried to get away from the fact that England was above him and all around him and pinning him.   
  
He cursed at England.   
  
England’s smirk melted away, replaced with a more sober expression. And then with a tick of his eyebrow, he released the boy’s wrist momentarily enough to punch him in the cheek, whipping his face to the side. America cursed again and cried out.   
  
England’s hand replaced itself to America’s wrist, and with America’s eyes clenched shut he missed the pained expression in England’s eyes before he steeled himself once again.   
  
“You swore you would be loyal to me,” he hissed.   
  
America’s breathing sounded ragged, almost too ragged. He heaved, choked, wheezed. He tried to wriggle free, but England’s presence was too overpowering. Too oppressive.   
  
He whispered something to the wood of the floor, spitting out a large mouthful of blood that splattered against the dust and grime collecting on the floor and into his golden hair.   
  
“What?” England asked.   
  
America didn’t answer, staring off to the side and refusing to look at England now.   
  
“What did you say?” England insisted, and shoves the knee into America’s chest again, digging in and up so that America cried out.   
  
With that cry, England relented, pulling away a little. Hearing it was too much for him, and his eyes flickered again, self-loathing lurking in the corners of his heart that he doesn’t want to acknowledge or visit, at least not with America under him.   
  
“Say it,” he cried out, when America still refused to answer.   
  
America clenched his eyes shut, licked his dry, bloodied lips. If he were to say it, then it would be real. If England heard it, it would be real.   
  
“Shouldn’t you be happier that I’m being _obedient_?” America snapped instead, turning his head again so that their noses almost bumped together. He tried to wretch his face away, but the unrelenting floor was beneath him and kept him pinned between the wooden panels and England. He swallowed, and renewed his glaring.   
  
His eyes wavered unsteadily, from England’s mouth then back up to his eyes. They were painful to look at.   
  
“Forced obedience is better than chaos.”  
  
“I am yours no longer,” America whispered, the anger returning to his eyes, overshadowing the fear. Even under England’s grip, he could be defiant. “You will never have me again. I don’t have to do what you say anymore.”   
  
“You have no means to be without me. You wouldn’t survive.”   
  
“I would,” America promised. “I’ll show you. I’ll become stronger, I’ll become stronger than you. I don’t need you. I don’t _want_ you.” He hissed in pain when the knee in his chest dug further. He coughed, and continued, “I’ll become better than you, so that I look down at you. I won’t let you treat me like I’m yours, as if I’m your property.”   
  
“You _are_ ,” England shouted.   
  
America panted, back arching in pain and in his attempts to get out from under England’s weight, trying to shove him away. “Get off me.”   
  
“No.”   
  
“I don’t need you or want you anymore. Why are you still here? Why do you keep oppressing my people? You tyrant. You—”  
  
England punched him again.   
  
He gasped in pain. Then laughed. “You can’t keep me silent, England. I won’t let you keep me down anymore.”   
  
“Stop acting as if you yourself are your own nation.”   
  
America tried to wrench away from his hold, but England would not relent. They continued on in such a manner for a long moment, struggling, breathing shallow and expressions hardened. America tried to get his hands free, tried to wrap them around England’s throat, to choke him, to scrape his nails down the front of England’s chest, to tear him apart. He swallowed thickly, and England watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down—when, exactly, had he gotten one of those?—as he tried to work his throat to speak again.   
  
“I will do what’s best for you until you learn to be appreciative,” England hissed. He stared down at America’s face. “Call me a tyrant all you like, but I know what is best for your wellbeing, and for the wellbeing of the empire. If you continue to act so much like a child do not be surprised when I treat you like one.”   
  
“I’ll—”  
  
“Force me to see you as something that isn’t a child?” England guessed and by America’s silence rightly believed that to be the correct answer. He laughed, bitterly and without mirth. “You will never be anything to me but a rebellious, unruly child who needs to learn his place—beneath his betters. Trust me,” he said before he remembered that America didn’t, “You’ll thank me for this.”   
  
America gasped in pain at the continued pressure of a knee to his solar plexus. He scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and groaned out.  
  
“ _I hate you,_ ” he hissed.   
  
There was a long, strained silence as the two stared at one another. And then England’s face narrowed, darkening as the green eyes close off completely to a space that America couldn’t reach. The silence that followed seemed almost obscene, conspicuous, and heavy. England almost shifted away, almost lost the footing of the foot anchoring him to the floor, almost doubled over, but he restrained himself. He did not move at all, his face did not shift or change in the least. They remained that way, in a strained silence.   
  
England sucked in a shaking breath—it almost sounded shaking, but how could it be, not when his face was that angry—and released his hold on America’s wrists only slightly.   
  
“Hate me, then,” he whispered. “But that does not change that you are and always will be mine. Only mine, America.”   
  
“I hate you,” America repeated, softer now, but still just as deadly. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”   
  
“I know,” England whispered again, throat constricting enough for him to remember to continue asserting his authority over this unruly child. But the anger was slowly sinking out of him, replaced with a hollow emptiness that he did not wish to reexamine.   
  
“I hate you,” America said one last time and then fell silent, breathing quiet and pained and stark against the uncanny silence of the house.   
  
England let go of America and shifted his knee away. It was enough. America wrenched away from him, shoved his shoulder into England’s shoulder to send him backwards onto his back. He struggled to his feet, wobbled a bit, and then backed away, eyes wild and angry.   
  
“I will never submit to you,” America shouted as he backed up to the doorway, groping behind him blindly for something to hold on to, something to support him.   
  
England slowly rose to his feet, using the table to steady himself. His heart quivered.   
  
America was glaring, still, angry and unrestrained now. Not even trying to be reserved.   
  
He shouted, “I don’t need you! And I’ll drive you out, if I have to.”   
  
“I’d like to see you try, boy,” England hissed back, eyes narrowed.   
  
America turned on his heel and retreated, running away into the shadows of the house. England listened, and sure enough, some moments later, he heard the front door slam. He hobbled, slowly, his head and body throbbing from the force of America’s strength, to the window. He watched the boy—that foolish, stubborn, lovely boy—race down the pathway, towards town, towards his rebel friends.   
  
He breathed out, slowly, so that his breath fogged the window. He rested his cheek against the glass, so that the sinking sun peeking out from behind the clouds made the shadows of raindrops on England’s cheeks look like tears.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The revolutionary period did not start in 1776, with the Declaration of Independence, as many may believe or associate. In fact, many scholars believe that the revolutionary era began in 1763, when the French military threat to British North American colonies ended.
> 
> \- After the French were disposed of, British military presence still remained in the colonies. Many of the colonists believed this was needless during peacetime, and that should a threat arise, the militia would provide necessary defense for the colonists.
> 
> \- In addition to military, taxes remained. The taxes were easier to collect from colonists during wartime, when it was necessary to have money to fund the royal military and navy. But without a threat, the ‘voluntary’ taxation began to stop, as colonists stopped paying the taxes.
> 
> \- Perhaps foolishly, colonists believed that if they stopped paying the taxes, Britain would extract their military presence instead of, say, making the colonists pay their taxes. So, that ended well. England ended up implanting direct taxes to the colonists.
> 
> \- These taxations were incredibly unpopular, partially because of ‘taxation without representation’ and also because many colonists felt it infringed on their rights as Englishmen. Many people living in the American colonies also believed that such motives and oppressive assertion of authority from the empire meant there was a stranglehold on the colonies, preventing them from growing to their potential and all they could be.
> 
> \- Quoted from wiki because I can’t think of a concise way to summarize: “Because the colonies lacked elected representation in the governing British Parliament, many colonists considered the laws to be illegitimate and a violation of their rights as Englishmen. Another cause of tension was that British mercantilist policies benefiting the home country had resulted in trade restrictions, which limited the growth of the American economy and constrained colonial merchants' earning potential. In 1772, groups of colonists began to create committees of correspondence, which would lead to their own Provincial Congress in most of the colonies. In the course of two years, the Provincial Congresses or their equivalents rejected the Parliament and effectively replaced the British ruling apparatus in the former colonies, culminating in 1774 with the coordinating First Continental Congress.”
> 
> \- In response to protests in Boston over Parliament's attempts to assert authority, the British sent combat troops. Consequently, the colonies mobilized their militias, and fighting broke out in 1775. That struggle is meant to be what was depicted in this fic.
> 
> \- For this fic, I made England stronger than America. I know canonly, the latter is stronger (in the WWII-era strips at least) but I decided that for now I’d make England stronger. He was an empire, after all. And America’s revolutionary notions were only just starting to boil over, meaning he still needed to gather strength, and have more strength once he was a legitimate nation. I hope no one finds offense in that choice.


End file.
